


Rumor Has It

by eternaleponine



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Clextober, Clextober 2019, F/F, Ghosts, Halloween, Haunted Houses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 12:28:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21197663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eternaleponine/pseuds/eternaleponine
Summary: Octavia dares Clarke to knock on the door of a house that's rumored to be haunted.  Clarke thinks it's a stupid dare... until someone answers the door.





	Rumor Has It

"This is ridiculous," Clarke said. "_You_ are ridiculous." She narrowed her eyes at Octavia, but her friend had grown impervious to her glare over the years, and just grinned back at her. 

"Next time, pick truth," Octavia said. 

"I didn't think you would pick something so stupid for a dare," Clarke said. 

"What did you think I would dare you to do?" Octavia said. "Run down the dorm hallway topless or something?" She rolled her eyes. "What would be the point? We've all seen your boobs."

Clarke hissed in a breath, her nails carving crescents into her palms as she balled her hands into the fists, using every bit of self-control she had to not drive one straight into Octavia's solar plexus. Maybe _she_ could laugh about it, and some days Clarke might have just shrugged it off, but it wasn't Octavia's ex who'd decided it would be okay to leak the (admittedly ill-advised) pictures she'd taken of herself when he'd been complaining he was lonely one night, and she'd been too busy studying to give him what he _really_ wanted. He swore he hadn't been the one to do it, that one of his frat brothers had hacked his phone, but the timing of it – right after a major fight – had been too much of a coincidence to ignore.

"Sorry," Octavia said, noticing the shift in Clarke's body as she tensed. 

"For what it's worth, they're great boobs," Raven offered, as if that was any consolation. "So are you going to do it or not?" She gestured to the house they stood in front of, with its sagging porch and overgrown lawn and forbidding trees standing sentinel in front. 

It was abandoned; that much was clear. It had been for a long time and whoever was responsible for it – there had to be someone responsible, didn't there? – hadn't bothered with any kind of upkeep. Rumor had it that the owners had left under suspicious circumstances, and that all attempts to sell it over the years had been unsuccessful, because it was haunted. 

Or so people said. 

People said a lot of things, Clarke thought, and most of them weren't true. Like, _I love you_, and _You're the only one for me,_ and, _I promise no one will ever know._

She shivered, and tried to play it off as a reaction to the chill breeze that signaled that finally, in late October, autumn had arrived. "Fine," she said, squaring her shoulders. "I'll do it."

Because she didn't back down from a dare, and it was a hell of a lot easier than telling the truth anyway. 

Clarke marched up the walkway, thorns from the bushes that were supposed to line the path but nearly eclipsed it snagging on her sleeves as she passed. One scraped along the back of her hand and she winced, instinctively pulling the injured hand to her chest and cradling it there. She put one foot on the first step, checking that it wouldn't give way under the slightest pressure before testing it with her full weight. The porch creaked ominously underneath her as she crossed it, stopping at the door.

She could feel her heart knocking against her ribcage, beating double-time even though she knew in her head that the house wasn't actually haunted, because there was no such thing as ghosts. Even if there was, and even if it was, it wasn't as if they could answer the door. Which was why this was all so stupid.

She raised her left hand and rapped her knuckles against the wooden door, a cascade of paint chips breaking free and drifting down to land on the toes of her boots. 

The door creaked open.

She ran.

* * *

She woke up in the morning drenched in sweat, her head and hand throbbing. The former she could blame on alcohol, the latter on the scratch from the night before that she'd meant to tend to but had forgotten... which she could also blame on alcohol. 

A glance at her phone told her she didn't have time to deal with it now, either. 

"Shit!" she muttered, and got out of bed, dragging on the clothing she'd discarded the night before – it was clean enough for sitting in the back of a lecture hall – and made a beeline for class. She was a few minutes late, but she slipped quietly into the last row, and she didn't think her professor noticed.

She tried to take notes, but her hand hurt and it was hard to grip a pen, and she hadn't had time to grab her laptop. She would just have to get the PowerPoint from the class site afterward and hope she remembered enough to fill in any gaps. But it was hard to pay attention when what had been barely a scratch the night had turned overnight into a festering wound, the skin around it hot and angry red.

She ducked out of class early, thinking to head for campus medical services, but what were they going to do? Wash it, apply antibiotic ointment, and stick a Band-Aid on it. All things she could do herself. And it would save her the walk halfway across campus, which felt like an impossible distance to go. So she detoured back to her dorm, doing her best to administer one-handed first aid, downed some painkiller, and collapsed into bed. 

Octavia didn't come home that night, which wasn't all that unusual, and Clarke was honestly grateful to not have to pretend to be social. It might have been nice to have her roommate bring her some food, but she wasn't going to interrupt whatever (or more likely whoever) she was doing to ask. She wasn't actually hungry anyway; she just knew she needed to eat. She filled a bottle with water from the tap and chugged it, then filled it again and went back to bed. 

In the morning, she thought maybe the cut looked a little better, but she still didn't feel great. It was Saturday, so at least she didn't have to be anywhere. She could just relax and recover. 

By Sunday, she knew she'd made a mistake. She burned with fever and her entire body ached. She hauled herself to the bathroom, leaning on the sink to keep herself upright. The wound on her hand had started oozing black and no matter how hard she scrubbed or what she used to try to clean it, she couldn't draw fresh, red blood.

"You need help," she told her reflection, which stared back at her unblinking for far longer than it was possible to not blink. "You need..."

Her reflection wavered, and flickered out, and Clarke's body hit the floor.

* * *

"This is ridiculous," Clarke said. "_You're_ ridiculous." She narrowed her eyes at Octavia... but Octavia wasn't there. She looked to her other side, and Raven wasn't there either. 

"Seriously?" she demanded. "This isn't funny. You dare me to knock on the door of the so-called haunted house, and then you disappear on me? How will you even know I did it? I could just find you wherever the hell you've gone and say I did it, and you would have to believe me. So what even is the point?"

They didn't answer. They didn't appear from wherever they had hidden themselves and admit she was right, this was stupid, why didn't they just go out and get something to eat instead? Or go back to the dorm and watch scary movies and eat too many miniature chocolate bars? Hell, she might even agree to throwing together a half-ass costume and going to some stupid party, as long as it wasn't at any of the frats. Anything to not have to see through this stupid dare.

"Fine," she snapped. "You may be chickens, but I'm not." She took a step forward and almost tripped over a bunch of desiccated flowers, still wrapped in plastic because plastic was forever. Next to the bouquet was a long-since-gone-out candle, a moldering teddy bear, some scraps of paper that had been bleached by the sun, their messages blurred by rain. A small shrine, more Day of the Dead than Halloween, but if this was how someone honored their ancestors, well... they deserved whatever haunting they had coming. 

She tried to dodge the bushes that overran the front path, but a thorn scraped the back of her hand. She cradled it instinctively against her chest as she tested the first step, and then the second. She shuffled across the porch toward the door and rapped her knuckles against a bare spot where the paint had chipped and flaked away. 

She started to turn to go back to her friends but froze when she heard a noise she hadn't been expecting: Footsteps. Coming from _inside_ the house.

She ran.

* * *

She woke up in the morning drenched in sweat, her hand throbbing... and there was something wrong with her eyes. It was as if the world had become desaturated overnight. It wasn't quite like living in a black and white photograph... more like the way things looked when lit only by the moon, even though it was nearly noon.

"Shit!" she muttered and got out of bed, managing to slide into class only a few minutes late, but snuck out again before the end because she could barely think for the pain in her hand. She thought about going to medical services, but what were they going to do? Wash it, apply some ointment, slap on a Band-Aid. She could do that herself.

Octavia didn't come home that night... or the next day... or the next. Clarke wished she would, wished she would bring her some soup or something. She would, if the roles were reversed and Octavia was the one who was sick. 

By Sunday, she knew something was wrong. Very wrong. Her vision was still fucked up, and no matter what terms she googled with increasing anxiety, she couldn't find anything that caused a person to suddenly go completely colorblind. She also couldn't find anything that would cause a wound to start oozing black, and no matter how hard she scrubbed or what she used to try to clean it, she couldn't draw fresh, red blood.

_But how would you know if it was red or not?_ she asked herself, as blood dripped down her hand and wrist and elbow to the floor. _You can't see color, so how would you know?_

And yet somehow she did know. Somehow...

"You need help," she told her reflection, which stared back at her unblinking for far longer than it was possible to not blink. "You need..."

Her reflection wavered, and flickered out, and Clarke's body hit the floor.

* * *

"This is ridiculous," Clarke said. "_You_ are ridiculous."

But who was she talking to? There was no one else here. Only a few scraps of dirty ribbon fluttering in the breeze where they'd been tied to the fence, and an old candle, long since burnt out, tangled in the weeds. 

Why had she agreed to play truth or dare anyway? Had they really not been able to think of anything better to do? And what had possessed her to pick dare, when Octavia was the one doing the daring? Maybe she could convince her to choose something – anything – else. 

Because the longer she looked at the house, the colder she became, and the tighter the knots in her stomach grew. She didn't believe in ghosts. When you died, you died, and that was it. You didn't hang around waiting for... whatever it was ghosts were supposed to be waiting for. Revenge? Absolution? Closure? 

But something nagged at the back of her mind, something she wanted to remember but couldn't quite. 

Something about this house, this night, her friends... herself. Something...

Torn between wanting to see it through, even if Octavia and Raven had chickened out and ran, or were hiding somewhere, waiting to jump out and scare her, and wanting to turn around and go home, she took a tentative step forward, into the bramble that nearly blocked the path to the door. A thorn scraped the back of her hand, and she cradled it instinctively against her chest. 

The porch creaked ominously and she started to turn to go back to her friends, mission not accomplished, but froze when she heard a noise she hadn't been expecting: Footsteps. Coming from _inside_ the house.

Clarke's breath caught in her chest, and in her panic she seemed unable to move it either in or out. She was frozen in place, her eyes fixed on the door, wide with terror as the sharp snick of a lock being turned split the sudden silence. And then slowly, cautiously, the door cracked open, and Clarke found herself staring into a single silvery eye. 

"Hello?"

The air in Clarke's lungs finally made its escape in a slow whine, the sound not unlike the one a dog made when it was particularly excited or especially scared, only without the panting. 

"Is someone there?" the voice asked, even though she – and Clarke was positive it was a she, from the tone of the voice and the shape of the eye, and she wasn't old, either – was looking straight at Clarke.

The door opened a little farther, revealing more of the girl's face, and she _was_ just a girl, no older than Clarke herself, her face pale in the slivers of moonlight that filtered through the gnarled trees. She took a step forward, craning her neck in either direction like she was looking for someone, and Clarke wondered then if she was blind. 

Clarke should say something. She _had_ to say something.

And then, "Clarke?" 

The sound of her name from the girl's perfectly formed lips broke the spell that kept Clarke frozen, and she did the only logical thing one could do in a situation where a stranger who couldn't see you still somehow knew your name: she ran.

* * *

She woke up in the morning to a world that still looked like night, late for class but fuck it, who cared? Her hand was throbbing and her head was a tangle of impossible thoughts. She waited for Octavia to come home, but she didn't. Not that day, not the next.

When the door finally opened, someone else, some girl Clarke had never seen before, stepped through.

"Who the hell are you?" Clarke demanded. 

The girl didn't answer. She didn't even look at her. She just went about her business as if she was the only person in the room. When she went to the bathroom, Clarke followed her, and she did nothing to stop her. 

Clarke looked down at her hand, at the darkness that oozed from what had started out as a simple scratch, and then at herself in the mirror, and her reflection was shimmering and hazy as it stared back at her. "You need help," it told her, and then wavered and flickered out, and Clarke's body hit the floor.

* * *

"This is ridiculous," Clarke said to herself. "_You're_ ridiculous." 

But she had to know. 

A thorn scraped the back of her hand as she marched down the front path, and she brought it to her chest, pressing her palm hard against her thundering heart, willing it to be calm, because there was no such thing as ghosts, and there was no one in the house, and this was all some stupid prank her friends were pulling. 

It had to be.

She tested the steps and found the boards cracked and splintering, but they held, and the porch seemed to slope towards the door, allowing gravity to assist in pulling her toward it. She lifted her hand, but before her knuckles could make contact with the wood that only a few spots of paint still clung to, it cracked open, and a bright, glittering eye peered out.

A bright _green_ eye.

An eye that was somehow familiar, but she couldn't quite link it to any particular memory, no matter how desperately she tried. 

"Can you see me?" she asked, because that girl, whoever she was, had acted as if Clarke was invisible, and...

"Yes," the girl said. "Yes, Clarke, I can see you." 

Clarke rocked back on her heels. "How do you know my name?"

The door opened farther, revealing more of the girl – no older than Clarke – tall and slender, with pale skin and pink lips and a spray of light, barely-there freckles across her nose. "I've been waiting for you," she said. 

Clarke frowned. "Why?" she asked. 

The girl smiled, a sad smile but still somehow warm, like she looked warm, warm and vital and... "I've come to take you home."

Clarke looked at her, at the color and life of her, and she didn't understand but she wanted to. "Do I know you?" she asked. 

"You did," the girl said, "and you will."

"What's your name?" Clarke asked.

"Lexa," she said. She held out a hand. "You're hurt. Let me—"

"Lexa," Clarke interrupted, because the voice was like bells in her head, church bells calling parishioners to worship and alarm bells warning of imminent danger all at once. Because she knew the name, somehow, but she knew, too, that it didn't belong here. _She_ didn't belong here. She was from... somewhere else. Another place, and not a better one, except for the fact that she was there, and that, Clarke somehow knew, was always good. 

Clarke wanted to trust it, wanted to trust her, but she couldn't. She shouldn't. She just couldn't quite put a finger on why. Something about this house...

"Am I dreaming?" she asked. 

"No," Lexa said. "You're not dreaming."

"Hallucinating?"

Another smile, almost a laugh. "Not that either."

"But you're not really here," Clarke said. "You're never really here."

Except that wasn't right. Lexa was here. Every time, she was here, but this was the first time that she was actually seeing Clarke. The first of... how many times? 

How many times?

"I'm here," Lexa said. "I'm always here."

"But you're a ghost," Clarke said. Even though ghosts weren't real. 

"No," Lexa said. 

"This house is haunted." Rumor had it.

"It is," Lexa said. "But not by me."

"Then who?" Clarke asked, even though she knew. 

Lexa's eyes were so soft, so sad, so _green_. "You," she said. She held out her hand again. "Come inside."

This time Clarke took it, her icy fingers clasping Lexa's warm ones, and watched as Lexa drew her hand to her lips, brushing them over the scratch that had festered, spreading infection through her body, spiking a fever and causing her to collapse, and she'd hit her head on the way down and never woke up.

Until now?

"Is this a dream?" Clarke asked. 

"Do you want it to be?" Lexa asked, still gripping Clarke's hand, which was starting to tingle, warmth and feeling returning, color leaching back into the world slowly. "I can send you back, if that's what you want. Or..."

"Or...?"

"Or you could come with me," Lexa said. "We can start over somewhere else. Try again. Get it right."

Clarke looked at her, at the hope in her eyes, and the resignation, like she knew Clarke's answer already and was steeling herself against the moment she didn't want to come, the words she didn't want to hear.

"If I stay," Clarke said, "what happens to you?"

"I wait," Lexa said. 

"You can't come with me?"

Lexa shook her head. "Not in this life."

"Why not?"

"Because that's not how this story goes," Lexa told her. 

"How do you know?" Clarke asked. "How do you know how the story goes?" And if she knew how the story went, if she knew what Clarke's life would be... could she tell her which choice was the right one?

"It doesn't work like that," Lexa said, as if she'd read Clarke's thoughts, and here in this in-between place, standing on the threshold of what was and what could be, maybe she could. "I only know I'm not in it." She looked down and away, and then back at Clarke, eyes swimming with tears Clarke was sure she didn't want to shed. 

Clarke looked over her shoulder at the world where her friends had once been and weren't anymore, at the cold moon and the unfeeling stars, and then back at Lexa and the promises she would never make for fear she wouldn't be able to keep them, but she was here, wasn't she? She was here, and no one else was, and that was something.

No, that was everything.

She slipped her fingers from Lexa's, but only so she could reach up and slide them into her hair, pulling Lexa down and brushing her lips against those of the girl she had known and would again. "Take me home," she whispered, but as Lexa's lips met hers, sealing their mouths and then their whole bodies together in a kiss, Clarke knew that she already was.


End file.
